How could Cicero’s wine be off?
Because Cicero’s off. Because she disappeared. And left us here. With her wine. With the last of her cellar. Which has all gone off.
In wine is truth, right? In this wine, there’s something rancid. Something off.
This wine is corrupted. It’s us – we’re corrupted. We’re tasting ourselves. Our own corruption. That’s all we can taste. It’s all we know.
Driss, quoting: Take me back to the day when wine was invented.
Or maybe it’s because we’re uncorrupt that we can taste its corruption. How does it taste to you, postgraduates?
The postgraduates, retching.
Is there a clue in the wine? A message in the bottle from Cicero? Some last message?
We need access to our special void powers. That’s what wine might give us.
Wine’s too good for us, anyway. We don’t deserve wine. We’re of the wrong social class for wine. It’s wasted on us. We couldn’t tell it was good or terrible.
Our palette isn’t exactly cultivated. It’s been destroyed by gut rot cider. By alcoholic’s white cider. By Wickd shots. By every kind of crap.
But perhaps wine elevates us. Perhaps it lifts us up. Breaks open horizons. Opens vistas. Perhaps we’re able to see further.
Work in Progress 